On the day the twins were supposed to be born, my wife bought up all the tocolytics in the hospital, refusing to let the children come into this world.
The nurses kept urging me to sign the surgical consent form so they could perform an emergency delivery—otherwise, the babies would suffocate.
Yet I remained silent.
Because in my past life, Helena Taylor had been diagnosed with congenital infertility. To secure an heir, she kept eighty-eight male models by her side, entertaining her every day.
She coaxed me, saying that if I could just get her pregnant, she would send all those men away the moment our child was born and make our baby the rightful heir.
I believed her. Step by step, kowtowing with every move, I spent three days and nights climbing to the most sacred fertility temple, praying only for a child with her.
When Helena finally conceived twins, I was overjoyed.
But on the day of delivery, she stubbornly delayed labor. I knelt, begging her to give birth before it was too late.
Later, when she emerged from the delivery room, I held our twins in my arms, tears of joy streaming down my face as I presented them to her.
Yet her face darkened. She snatched the babies and slammed them onto the ground—blood splattered everywhere.
Ignoring my screams, she ordered her bodyguards to drag me to a fresh grave and forced me to kowtow until my forehead split open.
"If you hadn’t driven Lucian away back then, the child in my belly would have been his! The heir should have been ours!" she shrieked. "I was going to claim Lucian’s child as my firstborn before these bastards were even born—to make him the heir! But you refused! You forced me to have your children!"
"Now you and these two abominations have stolen what rightfully belonged to Lucian and his child! You drove them to despair and suicide! I’ll make you pay with your life!"
I was beaten to death right there, at Lucian’s grave.
But when I opened my eyes again—I was back on the day she refused to give birth.
This time, I wouldn’t stop her. I’d let her have her "happy family of three."
The doctors and nurses were still pleading desperately: "Helena, you must deliver now! Any longer and the babies will die!"
Helena waved them off impatiently, her bodyguards shoving the medical staff aside. Then she turned to me, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Jack Wellington, if you dare sign that form, I’ll divorce you."
For a moment, I froze—then it hit me. I’d really gone back.
Hearing her threat, I didn’t fall to my knees and beg like I had in my past life.
Instead, I sat down calmly and said, "Fine. I’ll do as you say."
My obedience startled her. "Sarcasm won’t work," she snapped. "I’m not having these babies."
Just then, a bodyguard burst in. "Lucian and his son have returned to the country!"
Helena’s face lit up with joy. "Perfect!" she declared. "I hereby name Lucian’s child as my firstborn—my heir!"
"As for these two in my belly—get them out now. I need to see my Lucian!"
Even after enduring a lifetime of pain, hearing her treat our children like this still tore at my heart.
Thirty minutes later, Helena, ignoring postpartum recovery, changed into a tight, revealing outfit and left.
A nurse came running out, screaming, "You can’t take the babies! Their heartbeats are fading—they need emergency NICU care!"
My chest clenched—Helena’s bodyguards were forcibly carrying the infants away.
I rushed after them, but before I could reach my children, one of the guards knocked me out cold with a single punch.
The next thing I knew, I was being dragged away—straight to a press conference.
